


Christmas Eve in William's Room

by spikealicious



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AtS - Freeform, F/M, Spike - Freeform, Spuffy, btvs, buffy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikealicious/pseuds/spikealicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post BtVS S-7, AtS S-5. Post-ghost Spike is in L.A., but Angel is not letting him help or feel useful. While the gang is out on a job, Spike finds letters written to Angel from Buffy saying that she loved Spike and that she was proud of what he'd become.</p><p>Spike stows away on a corporate jet to France and makes his way to London to find his slayer.</p><p>In London, a grieving Buffy has done some research and found William's former home. The current owner has a room for rent. Buffy pretends to be interested, and tells the landlady she's a student doing her thesis on the Victorian Era, She's allowed to look in the attic at some of artifacts. There she finds William's old journals, etc.</p><p>Buffy is drawn back to the house.</p><p>Exerp:</p><p>Buffy made her way back to the second floor...Slowly, she walked down the hall to the bedroom that had been William’s and stopped...Buffy had just started to turn the doorknob, when she heard the slightest creak in the floorboards beyond the door, her spidey senses tingling with a familiar sensation.</p><p>Who's behind the door?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. LETTERS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike finds letters to Angel that lets him know she did mean what she'd said.

CHAPTER 1 - LETTERS

LOS ANGELES

DECEMBER 19, 2003

FRIDAY

1:00AM

Spike paced back and forth in the small confines of his 'new' studio apartment, smoking his fifth cigarette in a row. Or was it his tenth?

Before becoming corporeal, he'd been nagging Angel for a space to call his own, only to have his requests fall on the deaf ears of the git.

However, after the fight, in which he beat Angel over the phony _cup of torment_ for the chance to fulfill the Shanshu Prophecy, Angel had been quick to arrange for housing for Spike. Best to keep him out of Angel's sight as much as possible and away from things he could actually affect, now that he wasn't a ghost.

The day after their fight, Angel had sent one of the flunkies over to hand Spike the keys and address of a little, furnished, basement (what else?) studio apartment in East L.A., no less. It had a small bed, a chair, an old black and white TV set, hot plate, microwave, and one of those dinky college dorm refrigerators.

His landlord was the mother of one of Wolfram & Hart's lawyers. Obviously, so they could keep tabs on him, know when he was coming and going. He had looked for bugs when he moved in, and although he didn’t find any, he didn’t doubt for a second that his whereabouts were being monitored.

"Like the bleedin' Jungle," he said, referring to the book by Upton Sinclair about the meatpacking industries in Chicago. All the employees worked at the stockyards, lived in company houses, and bought their food and necessities at the company stores. More than likely, they were buried in the company's cemetery, as well.

For that reason, Spike preferred to find his own sources for blood. A little butcher shop on his way home served his purposes just fine.

Angel had even provided him with a car, not one of the new shiny toys in Wolfram & Hart's garage, but a 10-year-old Ford Escort with blacked out windows. How generous!

But that wasn't the reason he was pacing this night, nor was it that the dirty gray walls were closing in on him. Nor that he felt old, useless, and tired.

No, the reason he was pacing was because of what he had seen earlier that day.

Spike had gone into the office, as he did everyday, with the intent to sit in on the latest meeting with Angel and the gang. Not that he was wanted there. Or needed. Despite that he went out almost every night, just to dust a few vamps, see if he could thwart some evil doings. Despite that he would help in other ways, with bigger cases if they would only let him.

But no, Angel dismissed anything Spike had to say, whether or not it was a decent idea, whether or not the others agreed. Angel barely tolerated Spike, wouldn't make direct eye contact with him, and the only reason he didn't just send him packing, was he knew where Spike was likely to go, and of course, the ponce couldn't stand that.

When Wesley had come back, he confirmed that it could be potentially dangerous for Spike to leave the country or L.A., for that matter; send the whole balance of the world out of whack, more than just having two, souled, champion vampires had already done.

Spike walked towards Angel's office. Harmony wasn't at her desk, and he didn't bother to wait for an invite, which now Angel insisted on. Instead, he just walked in. The office was empty. Spike walked over to the window behind Angel's desk to soak up some non-lethal sunrays and look at the view over the city.

He looked back at the door and then back at Angel's desk. If they weren't going to let him in on one of their cases, he'd just find out about them himself.

He looked through the papers on Angel's desk, but didn't find anything interesting. Same with the unlocked drawers. He was about to leave when he saw a piece of paper sticking out from underneath Angel's desk.

 _

Odd.

_

He felt under the desk, and found a latch. Down popped a whole other secret compartment. He took out the papers he found and set them on Angel's desk.

His stomach clenched when he saw they were letters from Buffy.

He put them in chronological order and started to read. The first was dated 6/1/03,a couple of weeks after he they had closed The Hellmouth, after he had died. It read:

 _Dear Angel,_

 _I'm sorry I haven't contacted you earlier, but since the world didn't end, I figured you knew that we won. I also figured that you knew I survived, or someone would have let you know._

 _We won._

 _But not without a terrible price._

 _Many potentials lost their lives and I feel for those families whose daughter's gave their lives for the cause. With Willow's spell, where I shared my slayer power with all of them (not the only chosen one anymore) they had just enough time to fight like a slayer, before dying like one as well. In battle. Against Evil. And yet I live, as do most of the gang._

 _I know you didn't know Anya, but she was a good friend and Xander's girlfriend (once more, and almost had been his wife, but that's another story)._

 _And then there's Spike. I gave the amulet you brought to him. Actually, he saw us that night, and when I got back to the house, (besides some jealous vampire crap, not unlike yours), he asked about the shiny trinket. He said, that since you were going to wear it, then he was the likely candidate; that it needed someone strong to bear it, unless I wanted to give it to Andrew. (Don't ask, but think of him as...somewhere between Cabaret and Revenge of the Nerds, if you want to get an idea)._

 _I gave it to him, because he had become a champion in so many ways. Not in a big, sweeping, 'Caped Crusader,' type of way, but in consistently steady ways. Trying and succeeding in becoming a better man. Becoming a man._

 _A man I was very proud to know._

 _Spike wore it into The Hellmouth and when it activated, energy exploded upward, through the ceiling of The Hellmouth and all the way up through the floors of the school, blasting a hole right out of the roof. As the sunlight came down, it literally went through Spike and shot out through the amulet, in a huge swath, literally exploding the ubervamps and tumbling the walls of The Hellmouth, and all of Sunnydale in it's power._

 _I tried to get Spike to leave, told him he'd done enough, but he stood fast, saying it was something he had to do, that it was for him to do the cleanup._

 _stupid, stubborn vampire_

 _But he stayed, he finished, Spike closed The Hellmouth. Without him, there was no way that our handful of newly empowered slayers could have killed thousands and thousands of ubervamps, for that's how many were in The Hellmouth, just waiting to come out._

 _It's taken me two weeks to complete this letter. It's just so hard for me to put it all down. I've tried to come to terms with all of it; with not being the only chosen one (you'd think that would have been easy, but it feels like I'm adrift somehow now...without an anchor) with Sunnydale being gone forever, with Spike dying...that's been the hardest. I feel like I should feel guilty that I'm feeling worse over losing Spike over all the others, but I can't._

 _I told you that Spike was in my heart, but it wasn't until the very last moments of his existence that I told him. Know what he did? He denied it. Funny, huh? I think he thought that I was just saying it to him because I knew he was going to die, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t._

 _Angel, I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you to hear, but I spent too much time and energy denying my feelings for Spike and even though it does him no good now, I won’t deny them to anyone for the sake of being proper of whatever the hell it is people expect(ed) from me._

 _The really pathetic (on my part) and sad (on his) thing about all this is, that I don't think in his whole life, Spike really ever felt loved by anyone. Not even as William._

 _Yes, I know about William. Quite a bit, in fact. It was being jilted by a woman, which sent him into that alley the fateful night that Dru met up with him. Now, once again, for love - not just for me, but for humanity, he dies a last time._

 _Irony, huh? I think Spike would appreciate that._

 _I just wish that you could have known him these past few months. I know there is at least a century and more of animosity between you about things I don’t even know and probably don’t want to…but he had become a good man…and if you could have gotten past that, I think you would’ve seen that._

 _As for me, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do with myself. We’re in Sorrento, Italy right now, locating other slayers who have been called, trying to get them together so we can begin training them somehow. It’s just that they’re scattered all over Europe and even further. The task will be daunting. In the states, Faith and Robin Wood are setting up a training school for these slayers in Cleveland._

 _I hope all is well with you and wish you much luck in trying to run Wolfram & Hart._

 _All my best._

 _Buffy_

Spike wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

She loved him! She had told Angel as much, she had meant it! Angel knew, despite what he’d said to him during their fight. He bloody well knew!

The next letter was dated September 22, 2003:

　

 _

Dear Angel,

_

 _Good news!_

 _We’ve been able to locate about half a dozen of the new slayers, who’ve been called. That’s of the good. Language barrier, not so much. Luckily, Giles knows some Italian. We’ve been starting to train them, which keeps us all busy, and keeps me in some sort of shape, because since I’ve been here, I haven’t had one sense of a vampire anywhere around. But then again, Sorrento just isn’t a hotbed of demonic activity, unless you call wine-drinking evil. There would probably be more in Rome, which is where I think we’re heading next._

 _The area we’re in is beautiful, but somehow I just can’t feel it. I mean, I see it, smell it, taste it..._

 _Yet something’s missing._

 _That’s about it. Just wanted to let you know I’m okay, whatever that means._

 _Best,_

 _Buffy_

　

Spike sighed, there she was in a beautiful country, surrounded with beautiful scenery, peace and quiet and she’s aching for a smackdown. Well, he knew how she felt.

　

 _

November 1, 2003

_

 _Dear Angel,_

 _We’re in Rome! So much more to my liking…two things I’m liking: vampires to stake and shopping. Not so much in that order._

 _At least going out and slaying vamps gives me some purpose, even if Giles insists that I take along half the contingent each time I go. Sometimes I sneak out by myself, just to get some peace and quiet. Ha! Slaying vamps being equated with peace and quiet. Well, after I slay ‘em it does become a lot more peaceful! They seem to like to hang out at the Coliseum a lot, and I like being there, too. Too bad for them._

 _As for shopping…heaven. Leather is big in Rome, not in a kinky way (though it may be, too) but in the wallets, picture frames, outside of hand mirrors, etc., sort of way. Oh, and the fashions - wow! Dawn and I have been having a picnic decking ourselves out like the most in-style European ladies._

 _Guess it’s called shopping therapy and by the looks of the new wardrobe and shit load of shoes I’ve acquired, guess I’m needing a lot of it._

 _Empty pretty things._

 _Best,_

 _Buffy_

　

Spike had been so happy to hear something about Dawn and he smiled just imagining Buffy shopping and buying new shoes, clothes, and whatnot, but he’d stopped smiling when he’d come to her last couple of sentences.

Her last letter was just dated about three weeks ago.

　

 _

November 28, 2003

_

 _Dear Angel,_

 _We’re England bound! A friend of Giles has come through with an offer of a building to use for training the new slayers, plus rebuilding the council. Not on my top priority, but Giles thinks it’s a good idea. Well, with him leading it, it won’t be the same council at least. Guess he’ll have to start training watchers, as well as me and some of the other girls from Sunnydale that were with me, in charge of training with the newer slayers._

 _Pretty funny when you think of it, I’ve got 7 years under my belt, and these girls have about 7 months and they’re also being called upon to train others. Well, having survived The Hellmouth, guess that qualifies them, as much as anything._

 _We’ll be staying at a house that Giles owns in London. Who knew?_

 _I’m glad to be going to a country where the language difference won’t be such an issue (if you discount the new slayers) but I hear the food sucks and I’ve been spoiled by all this yummy Italian food and wine. If I didn’t train so hard every day, I’d probably weigh a ton by now. As it is, I’ve gained almost 10 lbs.! Not that I’m worried, I think I lost almost 20 this past year, what with worrying about everything, being short of money, worrying about…everyone, not to mention, working at that greasy spoon pretty much put me off food. So, guess it’s a good thing that my clothes aren’t hanging off me like so many rags, as they were in the beginning._

 _We’ll be arriving in London around December 10. I’ll write you once we get settled in. Probably after the New Year. Is it possible that the holidays are so close? Last year it was horrible at Christmas time, Spike had been captured by The First and nearly killed and that was when we saw our first ubervamp. Happy holiday memories, huh?_

 _Speaking of Spike, I was out patrolling a couple of weeks ago and I could have sworn that I saw him, only it was just some punk who’d dyed his hair white and had a leather coat on. And damned if he wasn’t a vampire, also. I killed him extra dead, just for making my heart almost stop when I saw him!_

 _I just can’t believe he’s gone sometimes. It just feels like he’s still here, just not here. Know what I mean?_

 _Hope you have happy holidays, Angel. You know you’ll always be my friend._

 _Best,_

 _Buffy_

　

"I am still here, Buffy," Spike whispered. He wiped his eyes again. He took one more look at the letters. He wanted to take them with him to read again and again, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t want Angel to know that he’d read them. So, he committed her letters to memory, to bring out when he wanted to. He brought the letters to his nose and inhaled deeply, just getting barely the faintest scent of her off of them, but it was enough. It was her. Buffy.

He’d replaced the letters carefully the way they had been and left the office. There was still nobody about, which seemed strange. Just then the elevator door opened and off walked Angel.

"What are you doing here Spike?"

"What do you think I’m doing, you ponce? Waiting for you and your band of do-gooders, see what’s up, the latest evil, the latest plan which you can exclude me from."

"Why bother then, Spike?"

"Well, just want to know what’s going on. What else have I got to do?"

"Well, there’s nothing going on right now, that’s why I took the morning off and went to Santa Monica to see a client. A normal, non-evil client."

"I see, well, I’ll just mosey along, then."

"Yeah, why don’t you do that Spike?"

"And why don’t you get stuffed?" Spike replied, walking off.

He smiled as the elevator doors shut.

　

Spike lit yet another cigarette, as his mind reread Buffy’s letters. He had to see her! Even if that’s all he did, even if only for a moment, he had to go to London!

END CHAPTER 1


	2. ACROSS THE POND

CHAPTER 2 – ACROSS THE POND

LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 18, 2003

12:00 NOON

Across the pond, Buffy sat in Giles library looking over some of the latest information, which Giles had just handed her, on some of the latest slayers who had been identified. Willow, with the help of the coven, had been able to do locating spells. The hardest part was the language barrier and trying to convince their families that they needed to let their daughter's come to London for at least a year, so that when they met up with vampires, which they all would eventually do, that they’d know how to handle themselves.

It wasn't enough that they had been called. Being bestowed with the mystical energies of the slayer also meant that, whereas before, they may have gone through their whole lives never being aware of what just lurked beneath the surface or around the corner; now they would sense it, even seek it out, as was their duty. But, without understanding what that duty meant, and how to dispatch their enemies, they would likely be killed.

Giles had just returned from the Philippines, by way of Russia and looked all the wearier for it.

"Svetlana Kasovkova, Republic of Russia, 18 years old," Buffy read aloud, skimming through the details. "Coming next week? Before Christmas?"

"Um, no. That's been changed. She's coming January 2nd," Giles said, "So is Jessica Ramirez, from the Philippines."

"Well, good," Buffy said, "wouldn't make any sense to make them miss Christmas at home with their families, would it? I mean, it's not like we're starting classes next week or something."

"No, but it's important that they start as soon as possible, you know how many of these girls we have to locate, and I have to be here to start their indoctrination, but then I have to leave to find..."

"I know, I know," Buffy said, wearily.

"I'm sorry I have had to leave you so soon after we got here, Buffy. I trust that Walter was able to take you and Dawn around to see some of the schools for her?"

"Yeah, he was all sorts of helpful, don't worry Giles, I know you had to go."

"So, did you find a suitable school for Dawn to attend?" he asked.

Dawn and Buffy had spent the past couple of weeks looking at schools around London. In Italy, since they had been moving about, plus there were no language immersion classes nearby, Buffy had Dawn just keep up with her studies on through online classes. Now that they were going to be in London a while, she thought it best that Dawn go to school and meet some people her own age.

Dawn agreed, having had quite enough of being all mature and research-y to last a lifetime in the past year. Well, at least until she had a bit of something _normal_ for a while.

"She settled on the American Community Academy," Buffy said, "or was it called American Preparatory? Gosh, we've looked at so many I can't keep the names straight anymore."

Giles looked over at her, with a slight frown.

"What?"

"Well, I did hope Dawn would pick one of the more prestigious schools, like..."

"I know Giles, and we looked at those and they had wonderful things to offer. And I know that being in London or Europe, for that matter and going to something called _American anything_ is sort of lame, like it defeats the purpose, but Dawn just really seemed to spark when we were there. Plus she saw a girl who reminded her of Janice, so that was rather nice. She did consider the others, I mean, you know how important school is for Dawn and she's only got two years left before college, but she decided that she needed something familiar. Think about it Giles, she's lost her mom, me, her home, her school, all of her friends, except for a couple who knew her email from before. I think that she just wants to see some familiar faces, at least it seems like that, because they're all American teens, whose families are also over here, working or living, or whatever."

Giles sighed. She was right, plus the school was as academically challenging as any of the English ones, or so he'd heard.

"Very well, that's fine. When does she start?"

"In January, after the holidays."

He nodded, "Well, I must go put these things away, and perhaps even take a bit of a nap before supper. I think all that jet lag is finally catching up to me. I'll see you later, then?"

Buffy nodded. She got up and wandered into the drawing room, then the kitchen, where the cook was busy cutting vegetables for the night's dinner.

"Would you be liking some tea, Miss Buffy?" Polly asked.

Polly was cook and all around bottle washer. She’d been working for Giles ever since they'd arrived, and from what Buffy had gathered, before, as well. They had known each other a long time and Giles said he trusted her to keep secrets, not that they talked openly in front of her about their…erm…business, but none-the-less. Polly, in her early 50's, had a kind face, with graying blonde hair, which she wore in a bun. She was only a little taller than Buffy, but had a bit of a matronly figure.

"No thanks, I'm just...I don't know...restless?"

"I see," she said, pausing for moment to look at Buffy, who took the opportunity to look down to examine her newest shoes.

She’d felt the sadness surrounding this young woman, ever since they’d arrived and had wanted to reach out to her somehow, but knew it really wasn’t her place. But now, here she was, just a hurtin’ all over and Polly couldn’t help herself.

"Someone be missing from your life, isn't there, Miss Buffy?" Polly asked, in her mild Irish brogue.

Buffy's head shot up. She stared at Polly and saw only concern in her eyes. She didn't know why that this almost stranger's concern made a lump form in her throat, but it did. Maybe it was because nobody else ever brought _him_ up anymore, and after all these months, neither did she. Even when she had, in the beginning, she'd been met with uncomfortable silences, as she tried to tell them finally, what Spike had meant to her and how much it hurt that he wasn’t there.

Buffy nodded, afraid to trust her voice.

"Then why don't you go to _him_?" Polly asked, gently.

"I can't," she said, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks at any second.

"Sometimes things get complicated, I know. But if you be loving him and he be loving you, then you should really follow your heart. Heads are messy things that get in the way, sometimes."

Buffy let out a guffaw; "You don't know the half of it! I would...I would...but I can't go to him, he's dead. Spike's dead," she said, and this time the tears came."

"Oh no! I'm so sorry Miss Buffy. I didn't mean to get you all upset, I didn't know...please forgive me stupid mouth me stupid nosiness," Polly said, mortified, as she came over to hug Buffy.

Buffy let herself be pulled into an embrace as the tears flowed.

"You want to talk about it?" Polly asked a few minutes later, after Buffy had straightened up.

Buffy shook her head.

"Well, if you ever do…" Polly said, gently.

Buffy nodded and started to leave the kitchen, then turned back to Polly, "He was English," she said, smiling, "but he hadn’t lived here for a very long time."

"Ah, then Spike’s not his real name, then. ‘Course if he was American, it probably wouldn’t be either, but I wasn’t sure, lots of crazy sounding names I hear on TV that you American’s have."

"Like mine?" she asked, grinning.

"Oh no, Miss Buffy. There are plenty of women here named that. It’s a nickname for Elizabeth. That be your real name?"

Buffy shook her head. How one could get from Elizabeth to Buffy she’d never understand. It wasn’t the first time that someone had asked her if that was her ‘real’ name, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

"William," Buffy said, "his name was William."

"William what?"

"Um…huh…? I don’t know, he never told me…and I never asked."

"Well, I’m sure that he was a fine young man, if you loved him. The reason I asked about his family name is that most of our surnames here have such a long history. Just thought maybe you might find some comfort if you looked up his family or his ancestors, seeing that you’re here and all that."

Buffy smiled a little, having just gotten an idea, "Thanks Polly…that’s not a bad idea…I like it."

"You’re welcome Miss Buffy. If you ever need anything…"

"I know. Thanks again," Buffy said, making her way back to Giles’ library.

END CHAPTER 2

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


	3. LONDON BOUND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike helps out in the W&H mailroom, and finds out some interesting information on coporate jets going across the pond.

CHAPTER 3 - LONDON BOUND

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

DECEMBER 19, 2003

FRIDAY

8:00AM

After a long internal debate with himself, in which time he surely must have worn a path from the door to the window as he paced, as well as having gone through at least two packs of fags, Spike packed a small bag of clothes. Stuffing it underneath his coat, he left his small flat.

Angel had arranged it so that Spike had a small salary, if that's what the _ponce_ wanted to call it. More like pocket change, just enough to keep him from being desperate; not nearly enough to do anything but merely survive on. At less than $100.00 a week, even with free rent, it didn't leave much left after gas and cigarettes, a bit of nosh.

How the hell was he going to get to London, without robbing a bank or something? Nah, not a bank, convenience store would be easier. Shit, he really didn't want to do that either.

Spike drove to Wolfram & Hart, as he did every morning, but this time, with the idea of caging enough cash, somehow, in order to fly to London. He didn't know how he was going to accomplish this, as he couldn't very well go stealing from peoples pocketbooks and wallets, as security cameras were all over the place. Nor, did he want to just rip off a credit card, as that would surely be noticed.

Spike had spent his morning and afternoon trying to act as normal and inconspicuous as possible, as he wandered about, looking for something, anything that could even be sold on the street for some money. Once he found that ‘something,’ all he’d have to do would be to disable a few cameras.

However, he came up empty handed and was frustrated. He found himself on Angel's floor, knowing that Angel was out on a case. He'd even asked to go along, knowing he'd be turned down, but he didn't want to arouse suspicion by _not_ acting interested.

Spike caught himself staring longingly at the door, his fingers just itching to open it and once more, go inside and read Buffy's letters, but he knew his chance of not getting caught a second time would probably be nil. Plus, getting caught would only hamper his plans. That is, if he actually had any.

The answer to his dilemma came in a most unexpected way. As he wandered about, Fred, carrying a large box, greeted him. He didn't mind _her_ company at all, seeing as she was the only one who seemed to give a damn one way or the other about him.

"Hey, darlin' mind if I tag along?"

"Oh, hey Spike," Fred said, distractedly and giggled, like she sometimes did for no apparent reason, "just going to the mailroom to get this off. Have to do it ourselves, since we haven't hired another mail person, since the last one died."

"So, now you're science girl extraordinaire and mail person, eh pet?" Spike asked, walking backwards and holding out his arms, into which she placed the heavy carton.

"That's about it. I really don't have time for this either! Knox was just in the middle of an experiment and if I don't get back there in time to help him..."

"Why don't I just take it down for you then?" Spike asked, stopping.

"Would you really?"

"Why not? Not like I'm doing anything better with my time here; poncy git won't let me participate at all, 'fraid I'll show his hero status up for what it really is, which is a load of..."

"Spike!" Fred's voice warned. She hated it when either Angel or Spike started going on about the other, for she was fond of both of them. Angel for what he was, how he had saved her from Pylea and was always helping people, and Spike for what he'd done to save the world. Not to mention he wasn't too bad on the eyes either, plus he always made her laugh, blush, or both.

"Alright, luv, alright. I won't go on about the poof for your sake and your sake only. Just get the box down to..."

"Just make sure that they get it out on the flight to France, first thing in the morning," she said, as she turned to head back the way she came, her tiny feet hurrying as much as they could.

France?

"Sure thing, I'll tell 'em," Spike answered and headed for the mailroom.

"Thanks Spike, good night! See you tomorrow," Fred yelled as she rounded the corner.

Spike glanced down at the box. It was being sent to an address in Paris.

The mailroom door was open, so he walked in and looked around. Finally he came to an employee’s only door and walked in.

"What do you want? Only mail personnel are allowed in here!" barked a ruddy complexioned man in a brown, nondescript uniform.

"Sorry, mate. Got orders from science girl that you should get this on the morning plane to France."

The man grunted, grabbing the package from Spike.

"Watch out, I think it’s fragile."

The man only grunted again, but set it down carefully in a mailbag on wheels.

"So, this is the mailroom, eh?" Spike said, making conversation, while he looked over the surroundings.

"Yeah, big deal. Need anything else?"

Spike’s brain was going a thousand miles a second, trying to figure out a way for him to stay here for a while, when he spotted a big pileup of mail on one of the tables.

"Um, no, I don’t need anything else, but it looks like you need something."

"Me? What would I need?"

"Oh, I don’t know, but judging by the fact that you seem to be all alone, and there’s that big pile of mail that doesn’t seem to have moved in who knows how long, it would seem that you could maybe use some help. Unless you don’t care what the senior partners think of the way you’re running the mailroom," Spike said.

That did the trick, the man deflated, even shook slightly. "Cutbacks!" the man mumbled, miserably. "Don’t know how they expect me to do all this, when it used to be done by three of us!"

"Pity that, stupid gits. Oh well, guess you must have something else lined up. Or," he paused, "do the senior partners even fire someone or do they just…?"

He shrugged apologetically, and started to turn.

"Wait!" the man called, "what did you say about help?"

Spike turned around; "You want _my_ help?"

"Are _you_ offering?"

Spike eyed the man, until he finally looked away, "Well, I was going to offer you a hand, seeing as my services upstairs aren’t needed at the moment. Honestly, I’ve nothing else better to do, if you want…"

"I do. I’d…appreciate it. Ever sort mail?"

And so Spike stayed downstairs, sorting mail and packages, long into the evening.

"Say mate, what carrier services do you use to get these packages overseas?" he asked the man, whose name was Rudy.

"We don’t use any carrier service, we fly them all over on Wolfram & Hart’s private planes," Rudy answered.

"I see. Makes sense, probably don’t want anyone nosing about, can’t exactly claim ‘demon brains,’ on documentation, now can they?"

Rudy shook his head, turning just a pit pastier than he already was.

"So, where do the big shots keep their planes at? Can’t imagine them being over at LAX, now can I?"

"They’re underneath the building."

"Underneath?" Spike sputtered.

"Yep, right underneath the building is a large hangar, which actually opens up into these massive tunnels. The tunnels run right under the city, all the way to LAX in fact. Planes roll right out of our hangar there and onto Runway 10."

"Secret of course."

"Of course. If you want to see it, when we’re done, you can help me take these downstairs."

"Sure," Spike said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. This was better than he thought.

An hour later, Rudy and Spike, with a cart full of mail and the package from Fred, were heading down to the hangar, via a secret elevator, located in the back of the mailroom. Well, actually in the back of an empty closet, in back of the mailroom.

The doors opened and Spike let out a soft whistle. Indeed, it was an airplane hangar, huge and cavernous.

"This is it," Rudy said.

"I can see that. Where do the planes roll out at?"

Rudy pointed to a far wall, "There, it opens up. Now where the hell is Sam?"

"Who’s Sam?"

"He’s the one who’s supposed to sign off on all these before I can leave." He looked at his watch and cursed, "Shit! I’m already late."

"Hot date?" Spike asked.

"Well, yes, but with my wife. It’s her birthday. One time of year I’m almost sure to get some, after I take her out to a nice dinner, ply her with a bottle of her favorite wine, and give her a very expensive gift," he said, thinking about the three-carat diamond necklace he’d bought on the installment plan. What was a little more debt for the sake of love?

"Sounds like a plan," Spike said, grinning.

"Not if I don’t get out of here in time!" Rudy said, glancing over at the doors to the hangar.

　

"Well, why don’t I stay for you then, get it signed and all that?"

Rudy looked at him, hesitating. Then he looked at his watch again, realizing that his chance for loving was ticking away.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Spike. Just stick around until Sam comes by. You’ll recognize him, by the lollypop that’s sticking out of his mouth. Ever since he stopped smoking…"

Spike nodded. Not that he would give up smokes for lollypops.

"Need me to lock up or anything?"

"Nah, door automatically locks."

Rudy got on the elevator and gave Spike a wave goodbye.

Spike turned back towards the hangar and walked over to the plane to take a look. It was a cargo plane, with a large underbelly. He wondered what else besides mail might fit in there for Wolfram & Hart.

There was a deafening sound and the feel of an airlock being broken, as the wall on the far side of the room suddenly lifted upwards.

A small little service truck came driving in. It drove right over to Spike and stopped.

"Who are you?" asked the man, Spike recognized by the lollypop description.

"Sam, innit? Rudy asked me to have you sign off on these," he said, motioning towards the cart of mail.

"And where’s Rudy?" he asked, suspiciously.

"He had a hot birthday date to keep with his wife," Spike smirked.

"Ah, yes," Sam said, smirking right back, "alright then, let’s have ‘em."

Spike handed over the ledger, and Sam signed his John Hancock to them.

"Um, where do I put these?"

"Just leave ‘em there, Rudy’ll pick them up tomorrow," Sam said, backing up the truck.

"Wait, can you make sure that top carton gets on the plane to France tomorrow morning? Science girl said it’s important. Don’t want her mad at me, anymore than Rudy wants his wife mad at him, if you get my drift," Spike said winking.

"There she is," he said, pointing to the plane, as he put the truck into gear. "Just go ahead and use the stairs and put the package in there yourself. Just remember, it’s your responsibility, then."

"I’ll do that. Which way is the elevator again? Don’t want to get stuck down here all night now, do I?"

Sam pointed behind Spike.

"Of course."

Sam rolled his eyes as he drove off. Damn stupid newbies!

Spike waited until Sam’s truck had driven off, and the door to the hangar had closed before walking up the stairs to the plane’s cargo hold. He looked in; it was already jammed with packages, all on their way to Europe. He placed his package near the door, behind some orange mesh that held the rest of the packages in place while the plane was in flight. He found some old tarps in the back and hoped that they wouldn’t be using all of those, as he planned on hiding under a few of them.

He went back down the stairs, and sent the elevator up, so it would look like he’d left. Then he went over to a desk in the corner, rifling through it for anything that might come in handy. He found about $60.00 made up of one $20, and the 8 $5’s. He left the larger bill on top, and took all the $5’s, replacing them with $1’s and hoped that Sam didn’t notice for a while. He also took some lollypops, seeing as it was going to be a good long time until he could light up again.

He walked back up the flight of stairs to the cargo hold and over to the farthest wall. Pulling two tarps on top of himself, he lay down against the wall and waited.

END CHAPTER 3

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


	4. WILLIAM CHANCE TOWE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy makes her way to William's old home and finds the owner has a room for rent...

CHAPTER 4 – WILLIAM CHANCE TOWE

LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 20, 2003

2:00PM

William Chance Towe, Buffy repeated to herself. William, meaning protector. Chance, meaning, inveterate gambler, someone who has survived by good luck, and Towe, meaning, vigorous, steadfast, stubborn. Suited him, she thought.

It had been surprisingly easy to find out Spike's name, once she'd found the Watcher's Diaries and did a little cross referencing.

William Chance Towe. Born August 15, 1852 to Anne Blakinship Chance and Henry William Towe. Educated at Oxford, graduated, 1874. Studied Classical Literature and Languages. Disappeared and presumed dead 1880. Never married. No children.

The story picks up, of course, when Spike, travelling with Angelus, Drusilla, and Darla makes his not-so-subtle presence known across Europe in the late 1800's and into the early 1900's, after which, they go on to America.

Buffy took down an address and closed the books, returning them to their places on Giles' shelves.

The next day, Buffy transferred to her second bus, getting off at Bartholomew Street, near the Health Center and walked for the next couple of blocks until she came to the street whose name she’d copied down.

From Giles' house, she could have almost walked, being that it was only a couple of miles, but it also intersected some major thoroughfares, so she'd opted for public transportation. Buffy now stood in front of the house at 22 Patshull Road. It was a medium to largish sized red brick house, on a street of similarly sized homes. It had at least 2 stories, maybe a third. Buffy wasn't sure it was a third story or the attic, or both. There was a garden in the front, along with some shade trees, enclosed by a short 3' redwood stained fence and gate.

There seemed to be a small stone crest of arms set into the brick above the window, though she couldn't see it's design from across the street, but she'd seen similar since coming to London. The heavy wooden door was painted a pale shade of green, contrasting with the brick, and there was some Victorian-looking scrollwork along the sides of it, matching those of the porch's wooden rails.

Buffy squinted at something in the yard; it appeared to be some sort of sign. She crossed the street to get a better glance at it.

It read:

Room for rent, please inquire inside. It also gave a phone number.

Buffy continued to stare at the house for a while longer. She was just about to walk off, when the door opened and a woman appeared in it, startling Buffy.

"Miss? Are you interested in seeing the room we have?" she asked. "If you are hurry and come on in, I have to leave in a few minutes.

Buffy swallowed, "Um...yes, I am...thanks," she said, as she opened the gate and walked up the sidewalk.

"Name's McTavish, Margaret."

"Um...Winters, Anne," Buffy said.

"So, you're American then, eh? Are you over here to work or go to school?"

"Work mostly, though my sister is also in school."

"Well, this room is only for one person..."

"Oh, that's alright, she's staying with relatives. I just thought maybe I'd like to get out on my own."

"This seems to be quite an old house," Buffy commented, looking around appreciatively at the beautifully done interior, the wine red carpet and cream and wine chairs and settee, "I mean that in a good way," she added quickly.

"That it is," Margaret McTavish agreed, as she walked her through the drawing room, dining area, and out to the kitchen.

"I'm sort of a history buff," she said, winging it as she went on, "I’m doing my thesis on the Victorian Era."

"I thought you said you worked?" she asked worried. Last thing she needed was a poor student who couldn’t pay.

"Yes, well…I work, but I’m also working on my thesis, but I’ve got over a year to finish it, as the professor is doing a sabbatical abroad at the moment. So, yep, mostly working right now," she lied, grateful that she’d picked up all the lingo of academia from Willow and Giles.

Margaret sighed in relief.

"You wouldn't happen to know the history of this place, would you? Or of any of the previous occupants?"

Margaret looked at her and brightened, "As a matter of fact, what you're seeing here is about what this house looked like originally. A couple of years ago we had the interior all stripped down to its Victorian Era splendor. You wouldn't believe the layers of paint and wallpaper that lay...well, nevermind that. Let's just say it cost a pretty penny and an ungodly amount of time."

"I can imagine," Buffy said, and she could.

"Problem is my husband has taken ill for the past couple of years and hasn’t been able to work, that’s why I’m advertising for boarders. In fact, that’s where I’m heading when you’re done looking; over to the convalescent home to visit him."

Buffy looked at Margaret McTavish. She couldn’t have been much more than 40 years old, much too young to have a husband in a convalescent home.

"I’m sorry," she said, "how long has he been there?"

"A couple of months," Margaret said, "they might let me bring him home for Christmas though. Even if it’s only for a couple of days, I think it will help cheer him up," she added.

Margaret went back to her role as tour guide, and Buffy dropped the subject.

"Do you happen to know the history of this place? Of the former occupants, by any chance?"

"Well, it just so happens, that my husband’s mother was related to the very early owners, so when this place came up for sale, my husband and I grabbed it up. Their name was Towe. Anne and Henry, they had a son named William. Not much known about them and what is known is pretty sad. Father died while William was a boy, he went missing when he was about 28, and his mother died right afterwards. At least, that’s what is presumed, as neither the son, nor the mother’s bodies were ever found. Still, there’s a grave marker next to the father’s for them in the cemetery."

Buffy’s heart was pounding. She was actually taking to a relative of Spike’s.

"What cemetery?"

"Ack! I forget the name, but I’ll think of it in a few minutes. Would you like to see that room now?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure," Buffy said, following Margaret up a narrow staircase to the second floor.

"This is the room," Margaret said, opening the door to a small room, probably no larger than 10 x 10 feet. It had one small wardrobe in it, a narrow twin bed, although slightly wider and longer than the usual twins she’d known, yet smaller than a double, there was also a small bureau and dresser, and one Victorian looking chair off in the corner.

"So, what do you think Miss Winters? It’s not much, but it’s comfortable. The loo is down the hall. There’s a shower and bath in there, also. Long as you don’t need it from 6:30am -7:00am, then we’ll get on fine together."

"Um, I’ll have to let you know, Margaret. It’s very nice, but I had a couple of more rooms to look at today."

"I understand. Just let me know, alright?"

"I will. By the way, this room…do you know whose room this was?"

"Yes, this was the son, William’s room."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, if the little drawing in the family bible doesn’t lie, then I do believe that would be correct. Plus, the larger one down the hall, would probably have been the parents, and the other one, by the way it was designed, was probably for servants, presuming they had them, which I am."

"This bed, is it…?"

"Good eye, Miss Winters. Yes, it is original, though not the bedding, of course, it’s been redone."

Buffy sat on the edge of it, sinking into the feather like softness, and ran her hand over the wooden headboard; imagining Spike laying here as a boy, dreaming of things, reciting schoolwork passages to himself…

"Um, Miss Winters? Would you like to see the attic? I haven’t been up there in ages, but I do believe that there are a few things up there that belonged to the original owners."

Buffy nodded, trying not to seem too enthusiastic.

Margaret grabbed a couple of torches and they went up the stairs. The attic was large, covered in the usual spider webs and dust that attics invariably were covered in. Margaret walked ahead to the far right corner of the attic.

"This is where some of the older stuff is," Margaret said, pointing to a trunk, "I’m not sure whose stuff this really was, as this house has had a lot of owners in the past 150 years. I have to make a phone call to let the home know I’m going to be a bit late. Just come on down when you’re done, okay?"

"Thanks, I won’t be long," Buffy said, kneeling down.

Buffy set the torch down, it’s light pointing up, and with both hands, she pulled the lid up. The first thing she came to was an old quilt. Underneath it were clothes, both men’s and women’s. She handled them carefully, taking in the intricate designs of the dresses, as well as the tiny, tiny waists. Even as small as she was, she was pretty sure that she would be terribly uncomfortable having to be drawn and quartered into a corset in order to wear them. Next she looked at the men’s clothing, wondering if it was the father’s or William’s. She ran her fingers down the sleeves of one of the shirts and brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She smiled when she got a faint scent of something that seemed to register inside her mind as Spike, though she suspected that it was as much her imagination as anything. Obviously, no smoke, whiskey, or leather smells, just a faint something else.

She lay the clothes on the inside of the opened lid, which was propped up against some boxes, to keep them from getting dirty, and looked further at the rest of the contents of the trunk.

There were various trinkets, a bit of jewelry, a ring, and then at the very bottom she found some old notebooks, on top which was written, Property of William C. Towe, in Spike’s familiarly peculiar handwriting. Her hands shook as she lifted them out.

She opened the first book and read the inscription. William ChanceTowe, 9 August 1875.

She started reading:

 _

I’ve been out of school now almost a full year, and still have not found any work related to that which I studied for. It’s all very discouraging, yet I soldier on.

_

_It is the same on the social front. Almost all of my mates from school have now married or are engaged. The only two who haven't as of yet, are Percy and myself. Though honestly, as for Percy, I'm not even sure he likes women; so then it's just me._

 _I have however recently seen a sister of a friend of mine who has taken my breath away, oh that she would notice me, the lovely Cecily Adams._

Buffy wondered if that was the same woman, who 5 years later told William that he was beneath her, causing him to run out to a fate which he didn’t know awaited him in the shadows.

She wanted to read more of his journals, but she knew that Margaret was waiting for her to leave so that she could go visit her husband. Quickly her mind went over her options. Slip the journals into her purse, ask to borrow them, or ask to come again. She opted for the latter. Sighing, she replaced the journals and then the clothes on top. She was just about to close the lid, when she saw there was a compartment between the lid and its shiny lining, much like the top of a suitcase. She pulled the lining a little, and the metal rivets creaked and flexed. She reached in and there were about two dozen photographs and letters. She quickly put aside the letters, which from what she could tell, were between Henry and Anne and looked at the photos. There was one of a chubby faced baby. She smiled, when upon closer examination, she saw the telltale distinctive little round chin of his, the broad forehead and straight nose. She turned the card over and it said, 1853, making him about 1 year old at the time. His round, almost cherubic face was graced with the fullest set of brown curls she'd ever seen. She giggled, looking at the dressing gown he was in. He almost looked like a little girl. God, Spike would have been so embarrassed and she, Buffy Summers, would have so enjoyed it. Suddenly she stopped giggling and she found that her eyes had filled with tears.

"Damnit! I wish you were here to be embarrassed you stupid vampire!"

There were some other pictures of him as a boy, lots of his parents; his mother’s features most like his, from what she could tell of the old daguerreotypes.

Then right before she put them back, she finally saw one of William as a young man. Her heart sped up, as this was undeniably the face of Spike, albeit, with a more gentle look than Spike usually wore, and with period style clothes and hair. But still…it was his face, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips…

Buffy’s breath hitched in her chest as she fought for control.

This picture, his baby picture, and one of him and his parents, she slipped into her purse.

She finished putting everything else away and made her way downstairs, after once more looking into William’s old bedroom. She thanked Margaret, said she’d let her know about renting the room, and asked permission to come and look in the attic again.

"Sure, why not. Just call first, alright?"

"Thank you, I will."

END CHAPTER 4

　

　


	5. ARRIVAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike arrives in France and makes his way to London. As chance would have it, he also winds up at his old home...

CHAPTER 5 – ARRIVAL

PARIS, FRANCE

DECEMBER 20, 2003

11:00PM

Spike shook himself off and looked around him, trying to get a sense of which way to head. It had been a long and boring flight for him, locked down in the cargo hold with only a couple of lollypops to tide him over. Truth be told he had also not enjoyed the cold. Funny, coming from him, but he'd been spoiled he supposed by living with humans for so long; first in Sunnydale and now, what with mulit-million dollar fancy office complexes.

Cold crypts or cargo holds for that matter just didn't do it for him anymore. He needed the warmth, the sensory perceptions. He needed a bloody cigarette the whole fucking flight!

He looked back at Orly Airport, through the fields he had just run through, trying to get his bearings. It had been pretty easy to slip out unnoticed after the cargo hold had been opened up and after the packages had been taken off of the plane. But, he had been concerned that they would close the hatch back up afterwards, which meant he would have had to make either a hole in the plane to get out, which he wasn't sure he would have been able to do, or make a racket, bringing attention to himself. Luckily, he hadn't had to do either.

He'd just simply jumped down and strode off through the darkened runway, until he came to a fence, which he easily scrambled over.

He heard the soft lowing of a cow nearby and followed the sound.

"Sorry mate," he said to the Jersey, which stood alone, chewing it's cud, "this won't hurt you too much, but I really am hungry." Spike slipped into game face and grabbed onto the cow’s neck, biting down and letting the warm blood slip over his tongue and down his throat. The cow stood still, unconcerned, as Spike drank for the next few minutes.

"Well, not quite as tasty as otter, but a lot better than that pig swill. Thanks," Spike said, giving the obliging cow a pat on the rump, as he made his way toward the road.

<><>><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

He hitched a ride with a truck driver heading toward Calais, where he could catch a ferry across the channel to the Motherland. It wasn’t until he was almost halfway there, that he finally understood the man’s broken English, that he could have taken a train and been in London tonight.

He sighed. So much he didn’t know about Europe anymore, how to get around being close to the top of the list.

By the time the truck pulled into Calais, Spike could see that it was only another hour to dawn. He would have to wait until the next evening to go any further.

He found an old warehouse on the outskirts of town, which looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and settled in for the day.

He awoke around 6:00pm the following evening, feeling a sense of anticipation. Hurriedly, he headed towards the ferry station to find out the schedules. There was a ferry leaving around 8:00pm that would get him to Dover around 10:00pm, but he’d still have to get to London. He asked where the train station was and found that the Eurostar stopped in Calais for passengers around 10pm and would get to London about an hour later. Much better.

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LONDON, ENGLAND

DECEMBER 21, 2003

11:30PM

Spike stood outside the rail station in the middle of London, wondering what he should do next. His initial enthusiasm wore off once he realized he hadn’t a clue as to where he would be going once he arrived.

He wandered around London that night, from the inner city, to it’s more outer reaches, trying to get a feel for the city he’d left so many years before. It was getting towards morning when he found himself in his third cemetery for the night; hoping that he’d get a sense that she’d been there, hoping that maybe while Buffy was in London, she would go out patrolling.

He amused himself with fantasies of her tackling him, straddling him, ready to stake the _Big Bad_ , only to realize it was he. Her stake would drop, as a look of amazement would cross her features, next thing, she would be in his arms, kissing him passionately as he… Or, more likely, she would think he was just another wanker, like the one she saw who reminded her of him, and she would stake him accidentally before he got so much the chance to say, ‘Bloody hell, Slayer!’

He sighed. Not realizing it, he had wound up in front of his family’s old home. He peered through the darkness at it. It still looked almost the same. He stood there for a long time, realizing that he should be hurrying to get away from the coming dawn, but mesmerized by memories and something else which drifted ever so softly over his senses. He didn’t notice when the lights came on, or when the front door opened.

"Hello! You, across the street, what do you want?" Margaret McTavish called out.

Spike looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Well? Are you here about the room or are you casing the place, because if it’s the latter, just want you to know I’ll be calling the authorities straight away."

Room? Spike saw the sign then.

"The former, ma’am."

"Well, this is a hell of a time to come round looking for a room, isn’t it?"

Spike looked up at the sky. Time to think quickly.

"I wasn’t really coming to call right now, just coming off my job at the pub and thought I’d do a walk-by and see what the house looked like and all that."

She studied him for a moment, then sighed.

"Work nights then, do you?" she asked, motioning him over.

"Yes ma’am."

"Well, I work most days, but sometimes I’m home. Regular noises going to bother you?"

"No, I sleep like the dead."

She cautiously opened up the door for him, "Come in then."

Spike gingerly stepped over the threshold of the home he hadn’t been in for over 120 years.

"I’ve had some other inquiries, too. There was a young American woman here just yesterday asking after the room," Margaret said, thinking about her.

"I see," Spike said, distractedly.

"I don’t think she is coming back though. Think I would’ve heard from her. She seemed to be more interested in the history of the house and its former occupants than the room."

Spike barely was listening to her, lost as he was in looking around. He walked ahead of Margaret over to the dining drawing room, noting the fireplace, the ceilings, the walls, and little things about it that had been forever etched into his mind’s eye as a boy. He walked over to the windows, peering briefly through the drapes, up at the lightening sky.

She talked about the rooms as they went through them, but Spike barely heard. They were at the top of the stairs now and then she was opening the door to his former bedroom.

She looked over at him. He had such a world weary, sad look on his face, as he tentatively walked around the room.

"I’ll take it," he said softly.

"What?" she asked, not knowing if she’d heard correctly.

"I’ll take it," he repeated.

"Well, usually I do a background check and…" she stopped to look at him. He had sat down on the bed, his head in his hands.

"Um…what do I call you?"

He looked up at her, and she saw the pain in his eyes, if only for a mere second. Then it was gone. Still, she’d seen it, and it had touched her.

"Call?"

"Your name?"

"Spike. William, if you’d prefer."

"William," she said, just like the person who had once lived here. Suited her that his name should be the same, somehow.

"I’m Margaret McTavish. So, William…when would you like to move in?"

"Now."

"Now? As in now? Right now?"

Spike nodded, then cleared his throat, "See, person I was with, I got kicked out, so if you don’t mind, yeah, now would suit me fine," Spike said, reaching in and handing Margaret the rest of his cash, which amounted to about $42 and some change, American. "I can get more tonight, for the first month’s rent. And in pounds, too."

She looked at the money suspiciously. "Why do you have dollars?"

"Only money I made tonight at the pub, was by some American who tipped in dollars; spent all my pounds on some dinner. I’m sorry, I can change them over later, if you wish."

"You say you got kicked out? You’re not just looking for a place to stay for the night are you? Because I’m not running some flop house, you know."

Spike shook his head; "No, I shan’t be going back there, and I really would like to rent this room," he said looking up at her, his eyes pleading.

She shook her head, knowing that he wasn’t being totally up-front with her, yet somehow trusting him none-the-less.

"Alright, William. I’ll rent this room to you for a month. We’ll see how we get on with each other. At the end of that time, if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want any problems, understand?"

Spike nodded.

"You have any other stuff to bring over?"

Spike thought about it. He didn’t, but he figured he’d buy some stuff later tonight to satisfy her, rather than her just think him a vagabond, a homeless person, a vagrant... In all honesty, he did rather fit those descriptions, just didn’t care to think of himself in those terms.

"Um, yeah, I’ll pick up my things from my old flat tonight and bring ‘em over. Don’t have much anyway."

She nodded, "Alright then, I’ll leave you be. If you want anything…well, there’s food and tea in the kitchen. Loo is down the hall."

She started to leave when all of a sudden he realized what she’d said to him downstairs.

"Mrs. McTavish? What did you say about an American woman looking after the room?"

"It’s Margaret. And to answer your question, nothing much, though I was pretty sure she was going to take it, as interested as she seemed to be. At least she was very interested in the history of it and its former residents."

"Did she know them?"

"From nearly 150 years ago? I should think not! Said she was doing her dissertation on the Victorian Era, or something like that. She said she’d like to come back, and look at more of that old stuff in the attic, so maybe you’ll meet her."

He tried to keep his voice even, "What did she say her name was? She sounds rather familiar; lots of them college types come into the pub, and all that."

"Think she said her name was…" Margaret looked up, and stifled a yawn. Head would work better, after she had her tea, "oh yeah, Anne Winters. Yeah, that was it. Know her?"

"I might," Spike said, evenly.

"Well, goodnight then, or good morning, whichever you’ll be going by."

Spike nodded as she left the room, closing the door after her. He stood up and threw his duster onto the chair in the corner, then collapsed on the bed.

His head spun as he took it all in; the flight over, being back in London, his old room, even his old bed. And…Anne Winters? Could that possibly be…?

Buffy’s middle name, forever remembered from when he’d visited her grave all those 147 days, a couple of years ago; sat running his fingers over the inscription again and again and again. Winters, the opposite meaning of her last name. It was almost so bloody obvious, as to be funny. Therefore, it really couldn’t be anything other than a cruel coincidence, a joke from The Powers that Be. Probably just some silly, overeducated bint trying to make a name for herself, get herself published…

Spike curled up on his side, pulling the blanket around him and was immediately assailed by her scent coming from the side of the bed. Tears stung his eyes, all the while he inhaled deeply, knowing that his mind had to be playing tricks on him. Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, his face in the very spot he imagined her scent so clearly.

END CHAPTER 5

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


	6. DRAWN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy is drawn back to William's house and attic. In front of William's old bedroom, she finds her spidey senses tingling...

CHAPTER 6 - DRAWN

DECEMBER 22, 2003

7:00AM

"Spike!" Buffy startled awake, then relaxed back onto her pillow. That is, if heart pounding can be considered that.

She tried in vain to remember the dream she'd just had, but all she had was images of him standing in his black coat and white hair, silhouetted against something, that seemed familiar. She closed her eyes again, hoping that she would go back to the dream. Anytime she dreamed of him, it was somehow comforting; a lot more so than waking up and realizing that she was still alone, with no Spike to watch her back anymore.

Not that her back needed watching these days.

Even worse, it was opportunity forever lost. That possibility that they were finally, about to have a chance at something real. Real, without all the _end-of-the-world-crisis-every-day-news-at-nine-and-putting-all-our-past-shit-behind-us-once-and-for-all-type-real._ Forever lost. Just like he was.

The dream came again. She saw him standing there, his back to her. She always knew him by the way he stood, his telltale stance, proud, yet somehow vulnerable all at once.

He was looking up when she called to him, but he didn't hear her. She looked up, too, and saw the white steeple of a church off in a distance, but she couldn't tell what his vantage point was.

That's when she woke up. Sighing, Buffy wracked her brain trying to figure out where she'd seen this church steeple, because she was sure that she had.

She got up, went to her window, and drew back the curtains, letting out another sigh. In this distance she could see the red steeple of a church, the large turrets of Westminster Abbey, and another small yellow church down the road. One thing for was certain; London surely wasn’t short on churches, or church steeples, for that matter.

She went over to the dresser where her purse sat, and took out the pictures she’d taken from Spike’s old home. She stared at the image of William as a young man, trying to superimpose Spike’s face on top of it. What a contrast he had been to his human self! Spike surely, had constructed as different a persona from that of William, as he possibly could.

And yet, something of William had survived in Spike, even before he’d gone to get his soul. She’d been privy to that, on the few rare occasions when she’d let him be gentle with her, after she’d been brought back from the grave, and had sought solace from him for all the wrong reasons. And last year, after he’d returned, after having gotten his soul back, he’d been so much more restrained than she’d ever seen in him before, more refined, more…

She sighed one last time, staring at the face that looked out at the camera’s lens almost 150 years ago, before putting the pictures back in her purse again.

An hour later, Buffy went downstairs, leaving a note for Dawn that she’d be home by late morning and they could go and finish their Christmas shopping then.

Not knowing exactly why, but telling herself that she needed to tell Margaret McTavish in person, that she wouldn’t be taking the room after all, Buffy rode the two buses across town, drawn to 22 Patshull Road. Taking a deep breath, she walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder this time, and listened for a reply. She turned to glance out at the yard, and sadly noticed that the _‘Room for Rent’_ sign was gone.

"Well, what did you expect, Buffy?" she chastised herself, "Think that Margaret was just going to hold the room, so you could pretend you were interested?"

Half of her really had thought about actually renting it, not so much to sleep in, but just to be able to come there whenever she wanted...and what? Just spend time, she supposed.

She was just about to walk away, when for some reason, she turned back towards the door and tried the handle. It opened.

Buffy walked in and closed the door behind her, heart pounding, "Great, I’m breaking and entering, now," she mumbled to herself.

"Margaret? Mrs. McTavish?" she called out, not really expecting to hear a reply. She wandered into the kitchen and felt the teapot, it was still warm and she supposed that Margaret had already gone off to work.

Slowly Buffy found herself going up the stairs, pausing for a moment on the second floor, and then up to the attic. She had grabbed a torch on her way up and now carefully made her way across the floor to the far corner where the trunk was.

She opened it, and once more, laid the clothes against the inner surface of the lid, until she came to William’s journal.

She propped herself up against the edge of one of the walls, then jumped, knocking over an old seamstress’s mannequin, when she came in contact with a spider’s web.

"Shit!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike stirred in his sleep, waking a bit upon hearing a crash and a mutter from somewhere above. Must be his landlord, he thought groggily, turning over on his side. But hadn’t she left for work this morning? He pondered the noise for a moment, then decided it wasn’t anything to concern himself with and went back to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy righted the mannequin, then unfolded the old quilt, putting it over her shoulders, before leaning back against the trunk.

She opened the journal and began reading where she’d left off before.

There was an entry almost every day, if only a few lines about what was happening in his life, which by the looks of it, hadn’t been very much.

What was much more telling, had been the hopes and dreams he wrote of, the love he wanted so much to give the right person, the love that eluded him.

She took a quick look at the time, then continued reading.

　

 __

 _16 October 1878_

 _I dreamed of you again. I think they were dreams…yet they feel so real. I see you, who you are with so much clarity, the way you look from your long blonde hair, unlike anyone else’s I know, to your strange clothes that are not like any I’ve seen._

 _I awoke after such a dream again and sneaked out of the house into the night, walking down by the river, looking for you my love. You must be out there somewhere, must be real, otherwise why would my heart ache so every time you come to me in a vision? It can’t just be that this lonely poet is making you up to fill the void in his heart, can he?_

Buffy swallowed hard and continued to read.

　

 __

 _5 June 1879_

_

It was a lovely day, as days go, but underneath its fineness was a darkness that has hurt my very soul. Mother has been ill for quite a time, and today Dr. Gull confirmed what we feared; she has consumption.

_

 _Mother put on a brave face for my sake, but I know that she knows that this isn’t something that she shall probably recover from, as she’s been sick for months already, though she wouldn’t let me call the doctor until now._

 _I fear for her, she’s already suffered so, and it is likely to only get worse. I want to be strong for her, I must be!_

　

　

 __

 _10 August 1879_

 _Today was a horrible day. Not only did my employer tell me that he would be closing his business, leaving me without a position, as undesirable as it was, but when I arrived home, I found mother unconscious on the floor. I managed to bring her round and summoned the doctor straight away. He gave me a strong narcotic to administer her when she has a particularly hard time breathing, but that will only allow her to rest. It does nothing to improve her condition, which has seemingly taken a turn for the worse._

 _Had I not lost my position, I guess I would have been forced to leave it so I could care for mother, anyway._

Buffy finally came to the last few entries in the journal.

 __

 _7 November 1879_

 _I don’t know why I feel such a sense of peace lately. I think it’s because you came to me in my dreams again; blonde hair, hazel eyes, telling me that it won’t be long anymore, that I’ll be on my way to being together with you in the future._

 _The way you looked me in the eyes, as if you could see into my very soul! And then when your tiny hand reached out and you touched my face, I never felt such warmth from anyone before, never knew such desire when you gently kissed me and said "William," so softly that only my ears could hear it._

 _Where, oh where are you my love? I burn for you so much and I know you feel the same for me! Do not keep your identity a secret; please come to me soon, that we may be together at last!_

 _29 November 1879_

 _Alas, these dreams I’ve been writing of are nonsense!_

 _I’ve been smitten by the real thing I fear, and my head is in a cloud every time I see her. My friend Charles and I have gone calling on Philip recently. The second time, the loveliest creature I’d ever seen walked into the room and graced me with a smile. It turns out; it is Philip’s younger sister, Cecily._

 _The last two times I’ve been there, Cecily was there only for a few minutes, but each time I could feel the connection between us, in the way she chose her words and in the way she shyly looked away from me, as if her feelings might overcome her._

 _Oh, I think my heart may burst from joy._

　

An unexpected pang of jealousy and loss coursed through Buffy.

 __

 _26 December 1879_

 _Mother has been feeling better of late. Perhaps it is the holiday season. She gave me a lovely writing set yesterday for Christmas, and I gave her a bottle of perfume that she always liked. It didn’t even make her cough, which I feared it might._

 _An invitation arrived by messenger this afternoon, inviting me to my friend Philip’s home for a party on 2 January. I shall have to find something appropriate to wear, since I haven’t much money to spend on clothes since losing my position. Mother will be able to advise._

 _2 January 1880_

 _A new year is at hand, and with it I feel a sense of hopefulness. I shall_

 _concentrate on finding a new, and substantial position; so as to be a suitable prospect for the lovely Miss Cecily Adams._

 _I can hardly wait until tonight, for I’ve decided to tell her of my feelings, which I’m sure she already knows and reciprocates._

 _I feel my heart is soaring on love’s gossamer wings._

There were no more entries after this one. Buffy stared at the last page, a lone tear rolled down her cheek.

"Stupid bint!" she said, bitterly, "why didn’t you realize she wasn’t worth it, William?"

 

Buffy looked down at her watch and reluctantly started to put back the items into the chest. She was more than tempted to take the journal with her, in case Margaret wouldn’t let her in to look at it again, but she just couldn’t do it

If she’d been honest with herself, she’d have known that it wasn’t just the journal or the photos that were drawing her back here, but the house itself, the feeling that there was some piece of the puzzle about Spike that she needed to find out.

Buffy made her way back to the second floor, hesitating before continuing down to the main floor. Slowly, she walked down the hall to the bedroom that had been William’s and stopped. She started to reach out her hand towards the door, but then withdrew it, her heart pounding suddenly.

Spike had heard someone come down the stairs from the attic and now he saw the shadow of feet that had stopped in front of his bedroom door. What was this then? Didn’t make any sense that his landlord would just be standing there. Or maybe she was just looking at something else in the hall. That must be it.

Slowly, quietly he got out of bed and walked over to the door.

In the hall, Buffy thought she’d heard the bed creak ever so slightly and suddenly remembered that the sign in the yard had been removed. Perhaps, Margaret’s new boarder had moved in. She listened closely, but didn’t hear anything else. Must have been her imagination, ghosts of the past and all that. There couldn’t be someone living here already, could there? She put her hand up to the door. Wouldn’t hurt if she just had a little peek inside, would it?

Spike walked quietly to the door, his senses on full alert now, as equally sure his mind was playing tricks on him, as he felt a familiar presence nearby.

Buffy had just started to turn the doorknob, when she heard the slightest creak in the floorboards beyond the door, her spidey senses tingling with a familiar sensation.

Spike put his hand out to the doorknob, just as he saw it turn ever so slightly.

Buffy froze as she felt the tiniest bit of resistance.

Spike closed his eyes; his hand glided upward, caressing an invisible spot, mere inches between him and the warmth, the aching, and the longing he felt emanating from the other side, at least what his imagination wanted it to be.

Buffy held her breath, listening. Unconsciously, her hand lifted upwards, then stopped; suspended in the air at a point that just _‘felt’_ right. She closed her eyes, hand caressing the image she could almost sense, beyond the door. She could almost feel his face lean into her touch, cool planes imprinting and searing themselves once again on her palm, branding the memories there forever.

Spike drew in an unneeded breath and brought his hand down to the doorknob.

Buffy was startled out of her reverie by the soft sound of the knob being turned.

"Oh my God!" she mouthed to herself, quickly bolting down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the house. What had she been thinking coming here?

It had started to pour sometime while she’d been inside. Putting her jacket over her head, Buffy ran down the sidewalk and crossed the street, going back the way she’d come.

Spike heard footsteps retreating, down the hall and the stairs, followed seconds later by the front door being closed. Startled, he stood there for a moment, before darting over to the window.

Before turning the corner, Buffy looked back at the house one last time, up to the second floor, noticing a flutter in the drawn curtains.

By the time Spike got to the window, all he could see was someone running down the street, jacket above her head to shield her from the downpour. But it didn’t shield her from his memory of the way she moved, "You," he whispered, and as if she’d heard, she turned to look at the house. He quickly closed the curtain. When he looked back out, the street was empty.

Spike slowly walked over to the door, opened it, and inhaled deeply. It was her! Buffy! She’d been here, right outside of his door, within reach.

He slumped down in the hall, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them to himself, as he tried to make sense of it all.

　

END CHAPTER 6


	7. FOUND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a graveyard, past and present come together - reunion time!

CHAPTER 7 – FOUND

December 23, 2003

4:30AM

Spike walked back to the house dejectedly. He'd been looking for Buffy for the last two days, without any luck.

Yesterday, when he was sure she'd been there, he'd left as soon as it was safe for him to do so and tried to trace her scent.

"Bloody buggerin’ rain," he swore when he could only, just barely follow it for a couple of blocks before it faded completely.

This morning, he'd made himself stay awake, hoping that she might come again. Finally about 10:00AM, he'd risen and gone into the attic to see what it was that she had been doing there.

Her scent was strong there and it led him directly to the chest.

"Bugger!" he whispered, as he recognized the familiar quilt that had been his from the time he was a tiny lad. He put it to his face and inhaled, as memories of his life as a human came back to him; him as a boy, losing his father, going to school, going to college, mates, his mother, her illness, loneliness, his last Christmas, Buffy. Buffy?

He inhaled again, "Buffy," he whispered.

Next, he looked at the old clothes, remembering how his mother looked in the dress, how he had once looked in the old-fashioned shirt and trousers. He shook his head, as he felt the once familiar material, so foreign to anything they sold today.

Finally, he saw the journal and took it out. It took him almost an hour to read through it, his mind reliving the pain he’d felt when he’d written during some entries, embarrassed at others. God, had she read all this drivel?

He was shocked when he read about the dreams he used to have. He’d never thought of those, since he'd become a vampire.

Had he dreamed of her even then? Before she'd even existed?

　

And so, tonight, like last night, he'd spent the early hours going through as many cemeteries and neighborhoods as he could, hoping that he'd catch her scent, better still, that he'd run into her; but it wasn't to be.

December 24, 2003

10:00AM

　

"Buffy!" Dawn said, holding out her hand impatiently.

"Oh, sorry Dawn," she said, pulling off two pieces of tape and passing them to her.

"Sheesh!" Dawn said, taping the ends of the wrapping paper together. "Where’s your head at these days?"

Buffy and Dawn had taken the opportunity when everyone was out in the middle of the afternoon, to wrap their presents at the dining room table.

"I don’t know, Dawn. Guess I’ve just been thinking about home, know what I mean?"

Dawn stopped and looked at Buffy, "Yeah, I have too."

Buffy nodded and they went back to wrapping. Well, Dawn wrapped and Buffy handed her the tape, which at the moment seemed almost beyond her level of concentration.

"You miss him, don’t you?" Dawn asked softly.

"Huh?" Buffy said, not sure she’d heard the question.

"You miss Spike, don’t you?" Dawn repeated.

"Yeah, I miss him Dawn. I miss Spike," she said, exhaling his name as if she’d been holding it in too long.

"Me, too," Dawn said, quietly.

Buffy looked up at her, and for the first time, saw the understanding in her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, looking back down at the tape, as her eyes blurred.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"William? Are you in?" Margaret McTavish asked from the hall.

Spike rolled over and looked at the clock, it was nearly 3:00PM.

"I’m here. Do you need something?"

"I told you about Mr. McTavish, right? Well, the convalescent home is letting me bring him home this evening. I was just wondering if you’ll be here in a couple of hours. I could really use the help in getting him from the car to the door. He’ll need to be carried up the stairs, as he’s in a wheel chair and I haven’t had a chance to put a ramp in yet, and the portable one I’ve got is on such a terrible incline, that I don’t think I’ll be able to…"

"That’ll be fine, Margaret," Spike answered, "I won’t be going out until much later; be glad to help."

Margaret let out a sigh of relief, "Thank you, William. Well, I’ll be on my way then, expect us home in a couple of hours, then."

"Alright, I’ll be here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They finished wrapping the presents and Dawn announced she was getting ready for the evening. Translation: she’d be monopolizing the bathroom for the next 2 hours or more. Thank goodness there was at least another one on the main floor.

Buffy took the opportunity to wrap Dawn’s gift. That done, she wandered from room to room, uneasy, like a tiger in a cage, wanting…something. Needing…well, what she needed wasn’t possible anymore. Rather, who she wanted.

She’d tried to put the strange feelings she’d had the other morning, standing on the other side of William’s old bedroom door out of her mind.

Tried, but didn’t succeed. It was all she thought of, or rather, all she tried not to think of, constantly. His presence had seemed so tangible. Of course, she reasoned it was because she was in the house he’d grown up in, reading his journal, looking at old pictures of him.

In general, making herself nuts.

She found herself in Giles’ library and once more, took down the volumes that contained information about William the Bloody.

"Okay, Buffy, think like you’re in research mode!" she told herself, frustrated that she hadn’t come across anything new, which she hadn’t already looked at.

There were only a few mentions of his parents, but as she read the information again, she realized that she’d skimmed over a part that she hadn’t paid attention to before. His father was buried in Highgate & Kentish Town Cemetery. There was no mention of his mother or of him.

"Well, duh! No bodies."

None-the-less, Buffy took out the map and cross referenced it with the house on Patshull Road, and found it not too far away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Thank you so much, William," Margaret said, after he’d helped her get Harry McTavish into the house.

Spike nodded, settling Harry into his wheelchair in front of the fireplace.

"Harry is, too. Just can’t say it," she said, smiling softly down at the man who she’d promised to love, rich or poor, in sickness and in health.

Spike looked at her questioningly.

"He had a stroke a couple of years ago," she said, "but he seems to be getting a wee bit better these past couple of months, so we have hope. Isn’t that right dear?"

There was no response from Harry, but his eyes looked up at her and she nodded in recognition of their silent communication that only they were privy to.

Margaret looked at Spike, "Do you have plans for this evening? If not, you’re welcome to share our table, you know."

"Thanks, Margaret, kind of you, but I’ll be shoving off in a bit, someone I’m hoping to run into."

"Oh," she said and smiled knowingly at him.

He looked at her as if to say something, then looked away.

"William?"

"What?" he asked, looking back at her.

"Good luck."

He nodded. "Thanks."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner had been over for a while now; presents had been given and received. Dawn had gone off to a party at the house of a new friend of hers, Willow had gone over to spend the rest of the evening with the coven, and Giles had said goodnight shortly thereafter.

Buffy walked out the back door and stared up at the cold winter sky for a few minutes.

Nodding, as if she’d gotten a response to an answer, she went back inside, pulled on her boots, grabbed her coat, and walked out into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike walked out the front door with a determination he hadn’t felt since he’d first come to Sunnydale to hunt for the slayer. Well, tonight he was a hunter too, except instead of killing her, when he found her he would grab her into the biggest hug she’d ever had and never let her go again!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took Buffy almost two hours to get to Highgate & Kentish Town Cemetery. First buses weren’t running on a regular schedule, being that it was Christmas Eve; so she’d had to walk. Secondly, she was unfamiliar with the area and she’d taken a few wrong turns, before finally finding it.

Now that she was there, she realized the daunting task that it would actually be; there must be thousands upon thousands of burial plots in this old cemetery. None past 1885, or so it seemed, from what she could see of the headstones. Not only that, but the cemetery looked like it hadn’t been tended in over 100 years, and most of the headstones were either knocked over, overgrown with weeds, or crumpled altogether.

"Shit!" Buffy said, as she tripped over yet another fallen headstone.

Finally, she stopped moving and closed her eyes. Time to use some of that slayer instinct.

She stood as still as the gravestones that surrounded her and concentrated on the name of Henry William Towe and on the images of both William and of Spike.

Buffy opened her eyes, turned to her right and now walked with a purpose until coming to a stop about 3 minutes later.

She bent over and started pulling weeds and sod from the earth, until her knuckles hit something hard. She dug now with a single-minded purpose until she had unearthed what she’d been looking for.

The tiny stone read, William Henry Towe, 1838 –1860, Beloved Husband to Margaret, Beloved Father to William.

Buffy did some quick calculations. Henry had been only 32 when he died, William, only 8 when he was left fatherless.

She started to dig to the left and right of Henry’s tombstone, not knowing if there would be anything to find, pulling at the weeds and sod, as if possessed. Finally, her knuckles once again came in contact with granite.

Tears came to her eyes, as she finally uncovered what she had been looking for. Two more gravestones with the names Anne Blakinship Towe, nee Chance, 1836 - ? and William Chance Towe 1852 - ?

It was all the gravestones said. These looked different from Henry’s and she figured that perhaps at some point, a family member sure that Anne and William were gone for good, had paid for these to be placed next to Henry’s.

She sat back on her legs, put her head in her hands, and finally had the good cry that she’d been holding back for so long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spike was like a man or demon possessed. He tore up the streets in full vamp mode, not caring that he might be seen, not that he was, considering most people were at home or church that night. It was just that in vamp mode, he was better able to detect any telltale molecular traces of her.

He just had turned the corner, starting down yet another road, when he came to an almost screeching halt, not unlike Wiley Coyote, at the edge of the cliff, just before he inevitably falls.

He inhaled deeply, "Yes!"

It was definitely her scent and it was strong.

Spike followed it until he came to the gates of the cemetery. He couldn’t remember why they seemed familiar, only that they did.

He walked in and let his vampire senses totally take over. He tuned to the right and followed the path she’d taken.

It wasn’t long before he heard the subsiding sound of her sobs. His throat tightened in response to her pain, as it always did.

Suddenly he stopped; there she was 100 feet or so in front of him, knelt over something. He’d found her!

All his ideas of suddenly swooping in hugging her like some bleedin’ hero back from some battle went out the window. He stood there uncertainly for a few minutes, just taking in the vision of her, which up until this time, had been just that.

"Not vision mate, reality. Now what are you going to do? Stand there all night staring like some poncy git, or…?"

He didn’t have an answer for his own question, still he moved forward, quietly, a few steps at a time until he stood right behind her.

Although dark, he could still see well enough to see what it was she was kneeling over. His own eyes grew moist as he made out the writing; dead father, dead mother, dead self.

And there she was, Buffy, kneeling over his grave, grieving for him.

He should’ve never come here! Let her have her grief, then be done with it, move on with her life. He was just about ready to back up, run away, pack up and return to L.A., when he heard her whisper.

"Almost feels like you’re right here with me, Spike. It just doesn’t feel like you’re gone," she said, shaking her head, shoulders starting to tremble ever so slightly.

He couldn’t help it, he wanted to, truly he did! His hand came up, until his fingers lightly touched her hair.

"I am, Buffy," he whispered.

She stopped moving, breathing; every cell of her being intent on the three words she’d heard.

She relaxed, and started to laugh a bit. She reached to the back of her hair, put her hand out, willing her mind, her ghost or whatever it was, to make contact with her again.

Like a man in a dream, he stared at the hand she offered, then took it in his, giving it a squeeze, "Buffy," he managed to barely squeak out.

"Spike. I miss you so much…it’s been so lonely without you, never knew how much I loved you until you were gone, how much a part of my life you’d become, how much…" she laughed bitterly, "…always was a day late and a dollar short, huh, Spike?"

He couldn’t answer her, only stand there, his heart in his throat, the feel of her hand in his.

Buffy started laughing suddenly, "Wonder what someone would think if I add the date 2003 to the inscription for when you died," she said.

Before he knew it, he was chuckling, too, "Be pretty shocked, I’d say, pet."

Buffy yanked away from his hand, turning suddenly, as she went over onto her seat.

"Sp..Spike!?!"

Spike stared at her, shocked as well. Slowly he nodded, "It’s me, luv."

"Spike?"

He nodded again, the lump in his throat preventing any other words. He knelt down on his knees in front of her and slowly put his hand out to her face.

"Spike?"

"Buffy," he whispered, his eyes never leaving her face.

Suddenly her hand drew back in a fist and she smacked him as hard as she could in the nose.

"Ouch! Bloody hell, Slayer!" he yelled, wiping at the blood coming from his nose and looking at her disgustedly, "Always the nose, why the hell did you go and…"

Buffy let out a little cry and then she dived for him, tackling him back to the ground and covering his face with kisses, "Oh my God! Spike! It is you! I’m so sorry, I just had to be sure. I couldn’t believe it!"

He held her back for a minute to look at her, a small grin appearing on his face, "Could’ve just asked me, pet. Then again, now I know you’re really here, too," he said, ruefully wiping a bit of blood from his nose.

She reached down, took his face in hers, and kissed his nose.

"Ouch."

"No more ouchies, Spike, I promise, never again!"

"God help me, I love you Buffy. I…"

She crashed her mouth to his, silencing him with her kisses, until she gasped for air.

"Oh God Spike, how? When? Wha…?"

"Tell you all about it luv, if you want, but how about we get out of here, first? Find a place a little better suited for…um…that is if you want…?" his eyes looking up at her with a touch of uncertainty, despite everything.

"I want," she said, smiling softly at him. "I want you Spike. I want all of you, all that you have to offer, all that you are."

And then he smiled at her in the most beauteous way, his whole face lighting up with a joy she’d certainly never seen from him before, maybe not from anyone before; that was how rare it was and it was all for her.

"Oh God, Spike!" she said, laughing and crying all at once herself, before she once again, pulled his mouth to hers.

END CHAPTER 7

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

 

 

　


	8. EXPLANATIONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they make their way back to his former home (and to his rented room), Spike explains to Buffy why he didn't let her know he was alive or come to her before now.

CHAPTER 8 - EXPLANATIONS

Holding hands, they walked out of the cemetery, Spike taking a right at the gate. Buffy didn’t ask where they were going, didn’t care. All she knew was Spike was here, alive; nothing else mattered.

She asked how long he’d been _‘back,’_ and he told her all about his coming back as a ghost, connected to the amulet and Wolfram  & Hart, then suddenly becoming corporeal, in a flash, origins and reasons, still unknown.

"You should’ve told me," she said, softly.

"Wanted to. Minute I came back asked about you; wanted to know that you’d made it out of the Hellmouth, and that you were alright. I wanted to see you, God, I wanted to see you," he said.

"Why didn’t you let me know? I would’ve come, Spike, you have to know…"

"I know, pet. Couldn’t though. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me, was sort of touch and go for a while, felt like I was fading out of existence, you know?" he said, skipping over the part where he almost got sucked into hell. "Didn’t want you to come to me, only to lose me again, knew you’d suffered already. I couldn’t have taken it, if I was going to cause you any more pain."

She was silent for a moment, thinking about what he’d said.

"But what about when you became corporeal? Why didn’t you try to find me then, Spike? Let me know?"

He took a deep breath and told her about the Shanshu Prophecy that Angel and him had thought they were fighting over.

"Bloody Mountain Dew," he spat the words out.

"But you won the fight with Angel, huh?" she looked at him and smiled, which earned her a big smirking grin.

"Yeah, I beat the poofter for once. Didn’t make me human, but felt pretty good all the same," he said, standing just a little straighter, especially since Buffy seemed to not mind that he had.

"Now what?" she asked.

"You mean about the prophecy? Sod it all if I know! Don’t know if it’s real, don’t know if that’s my destiny or not," Spike said, shrugging.

They walked along the streets, smiling at each other and the Christmas lights that they pointed out to each other.

Finally, Buffy turned to Spike, stopping, but still holding onto his hand, "So, what made you decide to come, finally?"

"Found the letters you’d been sending to Angel, when I was in his office one day. Had ‘em hidden away…I read what you said, Buffy and I knew then, in my heart that you really loved me, that you’d meant what you’d said to me when I was about to be roasted."

"Oh Spike, you have no idea how much that hurt me," she said, looking away.

"When I told you that I loved you and you said, ‘no you don’t, but thanks for saying it.’ I’ve replayed those words dozens of times. Hundreds even, trying to figure out if you _really_ didn’t believe me when I told you, or if you had just denied it in order to get me to leave," her voice broke, as tears coursed down her cheeks. "Or if I had simply told you too late. That you died not believing…"

Spike reached up with his other hand, to caress her cheek, "There, there pet, it’s alright now, everything’s going to be fine now."

"Did you?" she asked, searching his face.

"What?"

"Believe me? Did you believe me, Spike?"

He took his time answering her, "Wanted to believe you with all my heart. At that moment, though, you were partially right, I didn’t want you to feel you had to stay with me, because you did love me. I knew I was going to die, and didn’t see any sense in both of us going. Pretty simple, that, Buffy. Just wanted you to live. For both of us."

"And the moment I came back, I remembered what you’d said, had a lot of time on my ghostly hands to think on it, too. Wanted to believe what you’d said, but then…"

"Then what?"

Spike tensed a bit, "Then I was working everyday with your ex, saw his unshakeable belief that he was all destined for not only the buggerin’ Shanshu reward, but for a happily ever after with you, too."

"Then when we fought over the cup of soda, well, we each said some pretty low-down stuff to each other. I told him that I was nothing like him, that I’d fought for my soul, didn’t have it forced on me by a Gypsy curse, and he told me that the reason you never loved me was because I wasn’t him," he said, his eyes not meeting hers.

"Stupid vampires," she muttered under her breath. "And you believed him, did you?"

"Well I…I didn’t know what to think, Buffy. Honestly, I didn’t. I mean, you’d told me you loved me, but not before that day, that moment…"

"I thought that even before that moment, you would have known how I felt, we spent the night, no, nights in each others arms, the love was there, Spike, even if I didn’t say it. And I’m so very sorry I didn’t say it; say it a lot."

"I know. I kept thinking about that time with you, too. And other times, when I thought for sure you loved me, the way you looked at me, so tenderly, the way you seemed to care."

"But you still weren’t sure?"

"Well, then there was the memory of you standing in that crypt kissing Tall, Dark & Forehead the second he showed up…"

"I know," she said, chagrined by the memory of that momentary slip in sanity, "you have no idea how much it shamed me, to think that I could have hurt you so with that…"

"Because I saw you?"

"No, because I wasn’t true to my heart, I was weak. Please believe me, I felt guilty for that, even before I knew you’d seen us. And it didn’t mean anything. Angel and I are only friends; there is no more Angel and I, no more wishing that there ever will be an Angel and I. Not even if he becomes human."

Spike’s eyes widened, "No? You sure about that?"

Buffy nodded and stepped closer to Spike, "I’m sure, Spike. Even if you hadn’t come back," she said, reaching up to touch his face, "I’d never want a relationship with Angel again."

"Why?" he asked, voice low.

"Because, I just don’t love him like that anymore. I loved him as a girl, in all the

fresh-faced, new slayer, first love, bad boy seeking redemption-y kind of ways."

Spike laughed, "Hey, treading on my unfortunate lot in life now, pet."

Buffy laughed, too. "Present company totally excepted! Anyway, as I was saying... all sorts of reasons that don’t hold for me now. See, it’s like this, Angel loved the _ideal of me_ , he didn’t ever really know me, not as the girl, certainly not as a woman. Not like you did. Not like you always did. Not like you do."

Spike smiled, "He wears lifts, you know. Stupid hair, too."

Buffy laughed, "I’m not going to speak unkindly of Angel. He’s been a good friend, just not what I want in a boyfriend, a lover," she said, gazing up at his blue eyes.

He swallowed hard. It wasn’t the only thing that was hard, at the moment.

"He also made unilateral decisions for me, and that’s one thing I can’t abide; those that think they love me, taking decisions out of my hands. You’re the only one who really has never done that. Present situation, possibly, being the exception to the rule."

He looked at her, "Oh, about my not letting you know? I’m sorry Buffy…"

"It’s okay Spike, just never, ever do that again, do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Slayer," he said, as his lips brushed against hers, "loud and clear."

They started walking again, and Spike told her how he’d flown over in the cargo hold of Wolfram & Hart’s plane.

"So, what happens if Angel figures out, or finds out how to fulfil the prophecy for real?"

"I really don’t understand what you mean, pet."

"I mean, don’t you want to be there to challenge him for it? So you can have a chance to become human? According to what you told me, you’re as qualified as he is at this point."

"Buffy," he turned to look at her, "I don’t give a rat’s ass about that bleedin’ prophecy or about becoming human. Not if it means I have to be away from you for another minute. I’d just rather take my chance right here and right now with you, rather than on some pipe dream that may or may not come to pass."

"That is, unless you think I should…go back there and take my chance. I mean, I can’t give you what a human man could; normal life, walks on the beach at noon, little slayers, well, not slayers…you know what I mean."

Buffy shook her head emphatically, "No, I don’t want you to go back Spike! As for normal…normal? Look at me Spike and then look up the definition of normal; I guarantee you won’t be finding my picture next to the caption. Slayer, that’s where you’ll find my picture. Maybe not the one and only anymore, which is more than fine by me, but there none-the-less. As for walks on the beach, I prefer mine at midnight anyway, and little slayers…well, haven’t given that much thought, but if I was pushed to, I’d say that there’s lots of _little slayers_ out there without a family of their own."

Spike stared at her, words eluding him, momentarily, "Have I told you how much I love you?" he finally asked.

"Not in the last 3 minutes, Spike," she said, giggling, the sound which was music to his ears.

"I love you, Buffy Summers!" he said, voice filled with emotion.

He cleared his throat, "I love you Buffy Summers!" Spike shouted. She laughed as he grabbed her and spun her around, until he pulled her roughly into his arms. "I love you, Buffy Summers," he whispered into her ear, "and for the record, you are the one and only. You’re the one Buffy."

END CHAPTER 8

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

 


	9. Christmas Eve in William's Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explantion is in the title - Spuffy goodness, mature audiences only.

CHAPTER 9 - CHRISTMAS EVE IN WILLIAM'S ROOM

They stopped in front of the house at 22 Patshull Road. Spike looked over at Buffy shyly and she smiled, then they started talking all at once.

"I knew it!"

"I sensed you."

"I was drawn here."

"I heard you, felt you."

Buffy looked at him in wonder and shook her head. She had turned around to face him and happened to look up; there it was the church with the white steeple.

"I saw you in a dream," she said, softly, "I saw the steeple from the vantage point of your bedroom window, but I didn't know where it was."

He nodded, "Been there always, even when I was a boy."

"Figures, everything is so old in England," she said, laughing.

"Even me," Spike said, smiling at her.

"Shall we go in now?"

Buffy nodded, then stiffened, "What's Margaret going to say?"

"Oh, don't think she's probably still up. Her husband came home from the convalescent home for the holiday. Helped bring him in," he told her.

"I was here before...oh wait, guess you must have known that, since I just used her name and you didn't ask me how I knew it."

"Well, she did mention an American girl who looked at the room, name of Anne Winters," he looked at her, rolling his eyes.

"Lame, huh?"

"Yeah," he said, softly, "so lame in fact, that I thought it couldn't even be anything other than a coincidence, a joke, a..."

She kissed him, her hands wrapping around him, under his duster, enjoying the feel of his back under her hands, the muscles rippling underneath his T-shirt...

"Um...Slayer?" he said, breaking the kiss, "maybe we should..." he nodded towards the house.

Cheeks flushed, she nodded her agreement, "Yeah."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Margaret McTavish had awoken, to use the loo. First she'd checked on Harry, asleep on the couch, herself in a sleeping roll on the floor next to him, since getting him to the second floor would have been too much of a chore. On the way back, she'd peaked out the window, to see if there were still Christmas lights making the street cheery. Her neighbors usually let them go all night on the eve of the 24th.

She looked across the street, and saw a couple embracing, oblivious to everything, but themselves. She sighed, remembering what it felt like to be young and in love. She swallowed down the little voice in her head that railed against the fates, the one that reminded her that it wasn't fair that her husband should've had such a thing happen to him, to their lives. They should've been enjoying their _barely_ middle years in comfort and...well, whatever went along with that.

As the couple broke apart, she could see that it was William, from his shock of white hair, "Ah, found who you were looking for I see," she said softly. The woman looked familiar to her too, as they turned and started for the house.

"Hope they're not going to be noisy," she said, the softened, "what the heck, it's Christmas Eve, and if William has found some company..."

Just then the door opened, and Margaret found herself in the uncomfortable position of standing there, and looking like the perpetual nosy landlord.

Buffy and William had tried to quietly slip in, but as soon as they opened the door, there was Margaret.

"Um...good evening William, and...Miss Winters?" she asked, surprised, "you know each other?"

Spike nodded, "Yes, Miss Winters and I go back quite a ways," he answered.

"Well, that's quite...a surprise now, isn't it? Both of you come looking for a room and winds up you know each other."

They stood there staring at each other in awkward silence.

"How's Harry doing?" Spike finally asked.

"Oh, he did quite well. We had a nice dinner and then got him to bed," she said, motioning to the couch. "I'm sleeping down here tonight, as well."

"Of course."

"Thank you for asking, William."

"Could I speak to you for a moment, Margaret?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Be right back," he said, giving Buffy's hand a squeeze.

Spike and Margaret went out to the kitchen.

"Margaret, I just wanted to make sure that it was alright that Bu...Anne spends the night here. I know it's really only a single room, but..." he stopped, unsure of what to say next.

For some reason, Margaret suspected that this wasn't just some fling that he was having with an old friend he'd run into, but something much, much deeper than that.

"You love her, don't you? Not that it's any of my..."

"Yes. I do. Always have, always will. Never thought I'd see her again, never thought..."

"It's okay William. It's fine. You really didn't even have to ask me. It's not like I expected you to not have a social life once you moved in. But it's very thoughtful of you to have asked."

"Thank you, Margaret."

She smiled at him, "Go on then, don't keep your girl waiting now!"

He reached over and gave her a small peck on the cheek, then turned and went back out to where Buffy still stood by the door.

Spike grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs, "Let's go. I'd ask you to follow me, but seeing as you already know the way," he teased quietly.

She ran with him up the stairs and down the hall to his room.

Spike fumbled in his duster jacket, trying to find the key, as Buffy pinned him against the door, kissing his neck, running her hands down his back, and trying her best to put her leg around his hip.

"Bloody hell woman!" he said, panting, "let me get the..."

"Spike," she said, as she rubbed her body against his.

"Key. Oh God, Buffy!" he moaned, and lifted her up, back against the wall, as his tongue pushed into her willing mouth.

"Spike."

"Door. Key."

"Find it?"

"Yeah, got it, let...go. Fuck woman, you're killing me," he groaned as she was doing things to him, making him feel things, right there in the hall he didn't even remember were possible.

He got the key in the door, and with Buffy's legs still wrapped around him, he finally got them both inside the room.

"Spike," she said, as she almost lost her balance, until he turned around and backed her into the other side of the door now.

Somehow he got a candle lit, then got them to the bed, falling on top her as they did.

"Uhh!" she grunted, as he landed on top her.

"You alright pet?" he stopped, a look of concern crossing his face.

"I'm okay," she said, reaching up, her hands lovingly traced his face, fingers remembering its sharp planes and contours. Her fingertips softly covered every square inch of his face, from the rounded little part of his chin, to his sensuous lips, along the straight line of his nose to his eyes, and over his scared eyebrow. Over his forehead and his ears, and back to his cheeks again, she touched him and remembered the topography of her lover's face, smiling at him as she did.

"Buffy," he choked out a whisper, moved to tears by the intimacy of her touch, as much as he'd been aroused by her sensuality.

"Spike," she spoke his name like no other, like a warm breeze had just blown in from a distant shore right, onto and into his soul, "make love to me," she said, putting her arms under his duster, as she tried to glide it off of him. "Make love to me like you _know_ that I love you, like you _believe_ that I love you, like you know that we're going to last. Make love to me like I'm your girl, because I am, Spike, I am your girl."

Spike looked at her with a combination of awe and every other happy, joyous emotion that she had wanted to be able to give him, wanted him to have, ever since she'd fallen in love with him. Ever since she'd realized it sometime last year, but the timing had sucked, and then, just when they'd been on the cusp of something wonderful, it had been too late.

Or so she had thought.

Until tonight.

And then Spike was kissing her, both hard and soft at the same time and everything in between. She could feel them all, all the emotions that his very being was so wonderfully, eloquently rich in. He was like the weather in Chicago. Didn't like it? Just wait a few minutes, it'll change. Except that she loved the whole tapestry of his emotions, loved his darkness, as well as his light. Loved his humor, his sarcasm, and his wit. Loved the 100% full attention that he gave her always, to his shyness, his pining, his kindness, his sexiness. Loved the good in him, what he had become, but appreciated the demon in him that itched for a smackdown. Loved the onion skin quality of his personality; layers upon layers upon layers, built up over the years, one after the other after the other. Loved that he offered to peel them all back for her, to stand naked before her in all his glory and insecurity all at the same time. Loved the spark that he'd gone to have them put back in him, but knew that it had really been there all along, just hidden under too many layers of his _onion_. He was everything that she'd ever wanted or needed in a friend and a lover. He was Spike!

　

Spike shrugged off the duster, while she worked on lifting his shirt off, as well. Finally he sat up on the side of the bed, taking off his boots. He stood up and took off his pants, staring down at her, clothed that she was, just as beautiful to him.

Buffy looked up at him and took him in.

Naked Spike, so fittingly appropriate, as he’d always stood naked before her, hiding nothing from her, while silently begging her to see him for what he was. Instead, it had been her eyes and her mind, that had cloaked him in darkness, denied to her what he really was. Beautiful.

Spike was beautiful! Beauty wrapped up in an all things contradictory shell, but oh so beautiful!

Buffy stood up at the other side of the bed and never taking eyes off of his, slowly undressing, dropping her own layer upon layers onto the floor, until then she too, stood there naked before him.

He stared at her, a lump rising in his throat. All his dreams, all his hopes of this day ever happening were now coming true for him. And he was overwhelmed. There she stood, his for the taking, his for the loving. His Slayer, his girl, his Buffy.

As if some silent cue passed between them, they walked towards each other, meeting at the foot of the bed.

Spike reached out and put his hand on her hair, lightly feeling its texture, its luminosity, remembering the feel so well. He’d dreamed of her hair sometimes, silly, as it seemed. Even when he couldn’t remember his dreams, he was sometimes reminded of them, by the tactile sensory feeling that he’d been touching her hair, or watching it as she was on top of him, whether it be fighting or making love. He always enjoyed watching, as her hair moved, like some living, breathing thing about her face, framing it in it’s luminosity, it’s glow, it’s…

He was brought back to the present by her hand caressing his face, by the look of wonder and love in her eyes.

Spike closed the gap until there was nothing between them, only skin on skin, lips on lips, hands all over, touching, feeling, remembering, bringing sighs and moans of pleasure.

They sunk down to the bed and continued their exploration of each other’s bodies.

His mouth found her breast and she sighed in pleasure and looking down at him, running her hand through his hair, which her fingers had loosened up over the course of the evening, she fell in love with him all over again.

And she cried out his name, when he pleasured her in ways he’d swore he couldn’t even spell, that night in her kitchen, so long ago now. She smiled at the memory; she’d only seen the word once or twice herself. Didn’t know how to say it or spell it either, and who the hell cared, anyway?

Who needed separate words for different parts or ways of making love? Not when she made her way down his stomach, kissing and licking as she went, or when she took his strong cock into her mouth, kissing and sucking it in its entirety. Nor when her own desire built, and as Spike became so delirious with pleasure, that all he could do was babble incoherently... she didn’t need to know the term for that either.

When he finally entered her, slowly, surely, eyes never wavering from one another’s, they shivered and gasped as he became totally sheathed inside her.

And suddenly, between kisses and thrusts she knew, he knew too; that all the bitty puzzle pieces, that had been both of them apart, had melded into a complete whole, which was them together.

　

　

To a cacophony of bells tolling, Buffy awoke the next morning, wrapped in the arms of her love, her lover.

"Morning," he said, kissing her on the head.

"Merry Christmas, Spike," she said, softly.

"Merry Christmas, Buffy," he replied, smiling.

"Wow, bells! Lots of ‘em," she said.

"Yeah, it’s like a bleedin’ Charles Dickens story, innit? Like a…"

"Shut up, Spike," she said, softly, smiling, as she silenced him with a deep kiss that conveyed all the love she held for him in her heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 6:00PM and Spike nervously fidgeted for the tenth time with his shirt and jacket as they stood in front of Giles’ house.

"I look alright?"

Buffy grinned at him; "You look fine; still. Especially for a dead guy!"

"I’m just…" he started, shaking his head, as his teeth nibbled his lower lip.

"Nervous?"

"A bit," he said, nodding, "don’t want to muck things up, like I usually do."

"You won’t!" she said, kissing him. "You won’t. Remember me? I’m the one who’s got the final say in all this. Me and only me! This? A formality only, I _won’t_ let you go, no matter what anybody thinks; you’re mine, Spike and I love you! Got it?"

He smiled, nodding, "Got it, Slayer."

"Good then," she said, and opened the door.

"Hey everyone," Buffy announced, "guess who’s coming to dinner?"

END CHAPTER 9

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


	10. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after the reunion, Spike is offered the Shanshu and all that entails. Other surprises - light fluff.

EPILOGUE

3 Months Later...

March 23, 2004

8:00PM

　

Buffy and Spike nervously sat in Giles' library.

"That it?" Spike asked Giles looking over at the corked beaker of bluish-green liquid he was holding.

"That's it. What do you think?" Giles asked.

Spike snorted, "Think there's got to be more to this than presto change-o, you're a human!"

"One would think so," Giles said, "but it's really not about the liquid, this just facilitates the process. It's that you earned the right, Spike. You earned the reward, you're entitled to it."

"And Angel?" Spike asked.

"He did, too. He's been made the offer, as well."

"Well, then, that's that. Sure the poof is already enjoying his day in the sun."

"You're both entitled, Spike. There's no either or. I don't know what his decision is."

Spike looked at Buffy.

"His decision doesn't affect me one way or the other, Spike. Doesn't affect us, what we have."

"What should I do, Buffy? Do you want this? For us?"

"I told you before, it's totally up to you. I love you no matter what, Spike; you know that," she said, taking his hand in hers.

He nodded "Tell me this," he said, addressing Giles, "do I have to do this now? Is there some time limit on it? Now or never type of thing?"

Giles shook his head, "No, Spike, it's yours should you want it, whether that's now or sometime in the future. There's no expiration date and if this vial broke, I could still make another one."

Spike sat back in the chair, much more relaxed, than when he'd first come. He put his other hand on top of Buffy's, rubbing it lightly between both of his and turned to her.

"Buffy?"

"I told you Spike, it's up to you," she said, and when he looked into her eyes, he knew that she was speaking the truth, that she would stay with him no matter what. In them, once again, he saw all the things he had at one time, never believe he’d ever see from her, her belief in him, and her love. It was as if his heart was already beating again.

Spike nodded, "Rupert, I think I'm going to wait a while before making any decisions. Might take the offer up at another time, more likely than not, I will. But for now, not minding being a vampire so much, rather used to it."

"Very well," Giles said rising. He smiled briefly at them and left the room.

They sat there in companionable silence for a while.

"So," Buffy finally said, "want to go patrolling?"

Spike smiled at her, "Sure, could stand for a spot of violence, right about now."

She nodded, "I'll get my stakes."

"Besides," he called after her, "nothing good on the Telly tonight."

"Wait, yes there is! Isn't there a Wallace & Gromit marathon on at 9:00?" Buffy asked.

"You're right!" Spike said, looking at his watch. "Why don't I just have TiVo record it for us? Then we can watch it when we get back?"

"That'd be great," she said, smiling at him. "You ready?" she asked, throwing him a stake.

He grinned at her, nodding as he rose up and walked with her to the door.

"I got your back, Slayer."

"You always do, Spike."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Seems pretty dead tonight," Spike said, after they’d patrolling for over almost two hours, without incident.

"Pot meet kettle," she said, grinning.

"Very funny, Slayer. Fine, don’t want to go home yet? Let’s go over to Broadmoor first, and have a look around."

"Actually, I’ve about had it..."

"In that case, I saw in the Telly guide, there's a Mr. Bean marathon starting at 10:00."

"Ug! No thanks Spike; I can’t stand that guy, he's so lame..."

"And what about the Vicar of Dibley?" he scoffed.

"She's funny! And raunchy! Think you’d like that in a woman, Spike. Okay, what about Manchild?" she asked, snorting. "Puhhhleeeze!"

"You’d best leave me Menboys alone!" Spike said, feigning a hurt look.

"Keeping up Appearances is having a marathon in two days," she said.

Spike’s response was derisive coughing and gagging sounds.

"Hey, I like Hyacinth!" Buffy said, defensively.

"Hello, Mrs _. Bucket_ ," Spike said.

"It's not Bucket, it's _BOUQUET_!" Buffy intoned, using Hyacinth's accent, and exasperated tone.

And they laughed all the way to the next cemetery.

THE END!

Hope you enjoyed this little reunion story and the Spuffy goodness.

spikealicious

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


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